


it's not running if we walk

by britishparty



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Bounty Hunter Jack, M/M, elf Rhys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-01 05:45:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13991727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/britishparty/pseuds/britishparty
Summary: Tim wakes in the middle of the night, startled by the bloody silhouette hunched over his fire. There's rope burn on his wrists and fear in his eyes, and Tim's always had a soft spot for people that need fixing.He's quick to discover that whoever this is, they don't need to be fixed. They need tohide.Well, Tim can help with that too.Art by the lovelytortellini-martini!





	it's not running if we walk

It’s still dark out when Timothy startles awake.

He’s a light sleeper. The same feral instinct that got him this far wakes him now, demanding he _get up, get moving, stay alive._

He opens his eyes slowly. Something else is breathing near him.

There’s the hunched shape of a figure beside the embers of his fire. The cinders give enough light to see their outline, a heavy cloak pulled tight around them. They seem damp in places, light shining unevenly off them, and as Timothy stills his own breathing to listen, he can hear that each of their breaths is ragged. There’s no light reflecting off their eyes, so Timothy risks it and silently shifts himself into a sitting position.

The figure startles instantly, eyes flying open as they turn to look. As they turn their head, Tim takes stock of the features he can see outlined: a thin face, elegant nose, vaguely defined cheekbones.

One eye has a strange light to it-- it doesn’t glow, not quite, but Tim can see the blue eye itself clearly in the dark, like light reflecting off a cat’s. The pupil expands sharply, a combination of darkness and adrenaline and fear.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” Tim rasps, voice still unfairly rough with sleep despite how awake he is.

The eye blinks. Blinks again, slower.

“Are you a healer?” asks the figure. A male voice, quiet and unsure and a little hopeful.

That has Tim’s attention. “Are you hurt?” He pulls himself onto his knees, squinting to try and see the man better. Where the fuck is his lantern?

The man startles back as Tim searches the ground around him. He doesn’t say anything, just watches carefully.

Tim finds his lantern - still attached to his bag - and pulls a mostly-burned stick from the fire, jabbing it into the lantern’s oil.

It flares brightly to life, and Tim sets it back on the ground, turning to look at the man.

He takes in several details at once: the cloth wrappings all around the man’s right arm, the two different colors of his eyes, the mess of his shaggy hair and the blood on his clothes.

“Shit,” Tim says. It’s a lot of blood.

“Take your cloak off,” Tim orders as he turns back to his bag, digging through it for his bandages. He’s got some somewhere.

He turns back, two rolls of bandages in one hand, and glances over the man. Beneath the cloak, there are clear gashes in his clothes-- nice clothes, they look expensive and strange in their design. Fashion, probably.

“Shirt too,” Tim says, casting a critical glance over the man’s state.

Most of them look like smaller scratches and bruises, at least from the waist down. Tim catches the grimace on the man’s face as he twists to get his shirt off.

There’s a gash across his side, a sword wound, and as Tim turns him to check him over, there are cuts along his shoulders and arms-- arrows that somehow, miraculously, just nicked him. His legs are relatively unharmed, except for dozens of tiny cuts all below his knees and the bottom of his feet, and rope burn around his ankles that mirror the angry red marks on his wrists.

From the injuries, it’s easy enough for Tim to put the story together. Whoever this is, he’s escaping from something. He was held prisoner, and he was running barefoot for a while through the forest-- blindly, off the path, if those really are thorn cuts like Tim believes.

Thankfully, most of the blood stems from a few places; there’s likely so much of it because the wounds were aggravated and went unattended.

“What’s your name?” Tim asks cautiously as he starts to wrap the worst of the cuts.

The man pauses. Tim can feel him go stiff under his hands, like a taut rope.

“Atlas,” he finally says.

Tim snorts. “Weight of the world, huh?”

He doesn’t miss the briefest of pained smiles on Atlas’ face. He doesn’t believe for a second that Atlas is _really_ this man’s name, but given the angry red around his wrists, he’s not willing to push.

Tim finishes wrapping Atlas’ wounds in silence, not willing to break it. He ignores the feeling of blood-slicked skin under his fingers as he gingerly turns Atlas back to face him.

His sides are warm, heartbeat easy to feel under Tim’s calloused fingertips. Atlas tips his head back and meets Tim’s eyes with unwavering-- something. Determination, trust, thanks. Something.

It unnerves Tim, and he lets go like Atlas’ skin burns. He scoots back a few feet, looking at Atlas uncertainly.

“Thanks,” Atlas says.

Instead of putting his shirt back on, he bunches it up under him, and wraps his heavy travelling cloak around him. He wriggles until he’s lying down, and then glances back to Tim.

“Sorry, what’re you called?” he says. “I forgot to ask.”

“Tim,” Tim says. Is Atlas just-- is he just gonna sleep? Right here? At a stranger’s campfire?

“Thanks, Tim,” Atlas says again, softer, and closes his eyes.

Tim blows out the lantern, and settles in to keep watch. 

* * *

 

The first thing he decides, as the sun comes up, is that Atlas needs two things: some new clothes, and a haircut.

His old clothes are cut to shreds, and however fancy they are, plainclothes really would do him more favors. And cause less suspicion. As for his hair, well-- Tim’s just annoyed at the way it falls over Atlas’ eyes as he sleeps.

Tim would also really appreciate some backstory here. He’d even be fine if the guy was a criminal of sorts - Tim’s dabbled before - but rope burn suggests something a little more personal.

He sits around after dawn, gradually stirring his fire back to life, waiting for Atlas to wake up. Atlas doesn’t.

Tim leaves everything but his coin purse, grabs his bow and quiver, and goes to find breakfast.

When he comes back, tail feathers of a decent-sized bird held in his fist, Atlas is still asleep. It’s sort of endearing; Tim hasn’t seen anyone sleep through the dawn sun in a long time.

Actually, Tim hasn’t seen anyone _sleep_ in a long time. The blatant trust makes him kind of uncomfortable.

Atlas wakes up to the scent of roasting bird-- and burnt feathers. Tim’s not the tidiest, never really liked learning how to skin and clean animals.

“Morning, sunshine,” Tim says.

Atlas stares at the food. “I haven’t eaten,” he says, like he’s just realizing this now.

“Bird’s not done yet,” Tim says. “When’d you last eat?”

Atlas has to stop and think. “Three days, I think.”

“Jesus.” He’s skinny, sure, but Tim knows the difference between skinny and starving. Atlas looks maybe a little underfed, with the slim frame and those defined features, but he doesn’t look at the bird like a starving man would.

“Go without food often?” Tim asks.

Atlas shrugs. “Slow metabolism. Haven’t eaten much since--” He freezes, catching himself, and looks carefully away from Tim as he says, “-- since recently.”

“Recently,” Tim repeats, nodding slowly.

Atlas nods once, fiercely, and goes back to staring at the fire.

“W-e-e-e-ell,” Tim says, drawing the word out uncertainly, “you’re welcome to come with me for a bit. I was thinking, actually, you ought to head into town and get some new clothes.”

Atlas frowns, picks at the edge of the cloak he’s sitting on. “What’s wrong with these?”

“They’re nice and all,” Tim says, “very fancy, but they’re kind of torn up. Besides, nice clothes aren’t all that helpful if you’re on the run.”

Atlas turns his head sharply-- seriously, how thick does he think Tim is? He can have a pretty face, brawn, _and_ brains.

“Oh, and a haircut,” Tim adds blithely to the end. “If you want.”

Atlas tugs at a few of the strands curling around the edges of his face. It’s long and thick enough to completely cover his ears and the base of his skull, where the edges reach.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “could definitely use that.”

“Next town over’ll have something,” Tim tells him. “And if we find a river, I can have a go at your hair.”

“Do you know how to cut hair?” There’s something suspicious in Atlas’ eyes, something that says he’d risk getting stabbed over getting a bad haircut.

“Used to do it all the time for my brother,” Tim says, and stands up abruptly. “Bird oughta be good.”

Atlas is blissfully silent while they eat. Tim watches him carefully out of the corner of his eye. He eats a lot, but not rapidly; he just eats like he hasn’t in a while. Not like he’s starving.

It’s a little unnatural, actually, and Tim stores that thought away for later. It’d be impolite to theorize so blatantly in front of Atlas.

Tim finishes eating first, and starts packing his things up. He scatters dirt and small stones across the remainder of his fire, smothering it. The smoke’s telltale, but they should be on their way out soon.

Atlas chucks the bones he’s finished gnawing at somewhere into the trees, and stands up to pull his shirt on. He brushes his cloak off and refastens it around his shoulders.

“So,” he says amicably, “where’s the next town?”

“Not far, actually,” Tim says. “If we hurry, we should make it just after nightfall.”

* * *

 

Atlas, for all he should be starved or weakened or not completely fine, sets a murderous pace. They travel along the edge of the main path through the forest; as soon as Tim sets them on their way, he’s practically jogging to keep up with Atlas’ damnably long legs. He tries not to take offense, but Tim’s used to being the tall one and it’s a little weird to stand a decent few inches shorter than Atlas.

Atlas moves strangely, too. It makes Tim wonder about his upbringing; there is fluid purpose in his stride, an even movement that’s somehow entrancing to watch.

They arrive shortly before sunset. Tim tries not to notice how Atlas pulls his hood up and hunches himself down into his cloak, becoming smaller and a little less elegant.

It doesn’t suit him.

Tim takes charge now that they’re in a town, even if it’s barely big enough to be called one. He locates the tavern easy enough - a knack born from practice - but stops there only to ask where he might buy fresh clothes.

He doesn’t look at Atlas, at the way Atlas’ one blue eye shines out from the shadow of his hood. He tries not to notice how Atlas jumps whenever anyone bumps into him, how he hovers uncertainly behind Tim and tries his best seem unnoticeable.

Just as the sun’s finally beginning to set, Tim steers them through the doorway of the one small trader’s shop in town.

There’s an old man behind a low counter with a monocle fixed over one eye like an eyepatch; he glances warily over to Tim and Atlas as they enter.

“Day’s over,” he says, voice flat and blunt.

“We just need some clothes,” Tim says quickly. “It’ll only take a moment if you can help us out.”

“Come back tomorrow,” the man says.

Atlas approaches, cloak brushing past Tim as he steps in front of him. “Business now or business never,” he says, stern and unwavering. Tim startles-- Atlas has hardly said a word since they entered the town, and Tim’s not sure where he got that note of steel in his voice.

The man takes interest; he reaches up and adjusts something on his monocle, making the lense glimmer in a way Tim automatically assumes is magical.

“Pretty boy,” he says, his smile showing entirely too many teeth. “You’ve got clothes better than anything I can sell.”

“Still,” Tim butts back in, feeling a little like he’s been shoved out of the conversation, “we’re looking to buy. I’ve got coin for it.”

The man turns his attention back to Tim. “No skin off my back,” he says.

He heads around the counter, moves some animal skins off a table, and pulls out a heavy wooden trunk from under it. He pulls a key from his belt and unlocks it, revealing a mess of fabric, most in muted browns, grays, and greens.

“Have at it,” he says, and retreats.

It actually turns out to be hilariously difficult to find clothing that fits Atlas. Tim’s not sure quite how he didn’t notice, but Atlas is _tall._ Properly, almost unnaturally, tall. He remarks on it, and the man behind the counter scoffs at him and goes back to picking at his dirty nails with a lockpick.

The sun’s definitely set by the time they leave the shop, Atlas hiding a bundle of new clothes under his new travelling cloak. His new outfit’s a lot more discreet, less-- less whatever his current clothes are, it’s still weird and not quite right and Tim’s not sure what to do with it. However, the bandages on his right arm as still present as ever, not even slightly loosened during the exchange. There’s a story with those, too, but Tim doesn’t really want to ask.

Tim leads Atlas back to the tavern, speaks quickly with the woman behind the bar, and gets them a room upstairs.

“We can sort out the haircut in the morning,” he tells Atlas, “and then we can head off again.”

Atlas just nods, briefly, and starts spreading out his new clothes on his bed. The haphazard cot looks too short for him, which Tim tries very hard not to find funny.

To stop himself from laughing, he exits quickly in the intent to find a bath. He hasn’t bathed in _weeks._

* * *

 

Tim wakes suddenly for the second time in as many nights.

There’s Atlas’ breathing, slow and steady. Sleeping.

There are voices, whispering. The rustle of cloth, a few muted footsteps.

Tim opens his eyes just barely, peering through his eyelashes into the shadow of the room. Two figures, outlined faintly by the dim light coming through the open door behind them-- which _had_ been locked, Tim notes.

One slinks around the other side of Atlas’ bed, between him and Tim. Tim can see the light reflecting off the other’s eyes; looking at Atlas, not him.

Shit. He needs to protect Atlas.

There is the murmured words of an incantation, the sound of ink burning off a parchment, brief hand movements-- a written spell, used. Impossible to tell what it was for, if the signs of it haven’t already showed up.

The figure between Tim and Atlas reaches up, and Tim fights the urge to tackle her as she tucks a strand of the shaggy hair back behind his pointed ear.

Wait, hold on. His _pointed_ ear?

Holy shit, Atlas is an elf.

The figure mirrors this sentiment with a low whistle. This close, Tim can make out the words they're whispering:

“How much did Felix reckon he was worth?”

“Not our business, Fi. Let's start moving him.”

Both voices are female, Tim notes. Similar cadence; they're likely familiar with each other.

Felix and Fi are both names, very important. They're discussing worth: bounty hunters? Or possibly just merchants with few morals. The innate magical power in anything elven is highly desirable these days, which was probably why they'd gone into hiding.

Tim finds himself sick to his stomach. He _hates_ bounty hunters, and Atlas hasn’t done anything to anyone. He’s just running-- and actually, being on the run is given a startlingly clear new light, too.

“I don't like the look of the other one,” Fi, the woman on the other side of Atlas’ bed, says. “I don't want him to wake up.”

Tim makes sure his breathing is even and slow, refuses to let his partially-open eyes flutter closed. Even the slightest movement could give the game away, and Tim doesn't want to waste his advantage.

“Then hurry up,” the other woman hisses, pulling back Atlas’ covers. She starts rearranging him; Tim guesses that the spell they’d burned was to keep him asleep, because there is nothing gentle or careful in the way she manhandles him.

Together, they heft Atlas up. They support him between them, throwing his arms over their shoulders and slinging theirs across his back.

They turn to the door, and Tim leaps to his feet as silently as he can manage. They take a few staggering steps, adjusting Atlas’ weight, and Tim uses the spare seconds to pull a dagger from beneath his pillow and leap at them.

He grabs roughly at Fi, pulling on a fistful of hair as he presses the blade to her throat and levels his gaze at the other woman.

“Drop him,” he says.

He registers the immediate panic on the other woman’s face, and doesn’t miss the snarl on Fi’s lips as she glares up at him, eyes narrowed.

Atlas hits the floor like a sack of potatoes. Tim doesn’t have time to feel bad about it.

“You-- back against the wall, hands where I can see them,” he tells the other woman. Of the two, she seems to have the more open facial expressions. She’ll be easier to read.

She complies, eyes flicking down to the dagger in Tim’s grip. He pulls harder at Fi’s hair, staring her down.

“Who hired you?” he asks.

“No one,” Fi snarls beneath him. He can feel her shift, and presses the dagger into her skin, not quite enough to break the skin.

“Felix did, yeah?” Tim pushes, feeling anger beat like a wild thing in his veins.

“Yes,” the other woman says quickly, her gaze fixed on Tim’s dagger. “He’s an elf. Of course he’s wanted.”

“You can’t have him,” Tim says, and digs the blade’s edge into Fi’s neck just enough to draw a fine line of blood.

As the other woman starts to open her mouth, eyes wide with protest, Tim lowers his arm and releases Fi, shoving her roughly forward.

He points the tip of the dagger at them. They’re probably armed better than he is, but Tim is nothing if not good in a fight.

“He’s _mine,_ you hear?” Tim says instead, surprised by the truth in the words and the weight of them. “He’s under my protection.” He jerks his chin towards the door. “Get out. Tell Felix he loses his eyes when I find him.”

Fi and her friend share a look. Fi eyes up Tim’s dagger, glinting in the light coming through the door behind them. She looks like she's readying up for a fight, and Tim shifts his weight, preparing.

The other woman places a hand on her shoulder. Fi glances at her, and the tension bleeds from her stance.

The woman nods to Tim, and they leave.

Tim closes and re-locks the door behind them. He goes over to check on Atlas, who’s still lying in a heap on the floor.

His eyelids flutter vacantly, but he shows no sign of true consciousness. Tim fucking _hates_ magic. He hopes this spell doesn’t have side effects-- cheap, one-use spells sometimes do.

He maneuvers Atlas back onto his bed. Tim feels truly exhausted; he stayed up last night in the middle of the woods to watch over Atlas, he can’t quite push himself to do it again.

Tim stares down at Atlas. There’s a good idea here, and a bad idea. The good idea is good. The bad idea is still bad, _but_ protects Atlas even better.

Tim is very tired. He’ll argue that his brain isn’t one hundred percent on-board as he clambers onto the cot beside Atlas. At least this way, they’ll have to wake Tim if they try to hurt Atlas.

He wraps his arms around Atlas, trying not to think about the fact that one of the very few elves he’s ever seen in his life is cradled in his hands like something fragile and precious, and goes to sleep.

Eventually.

* * *

 

Tim wakes up with the dawn sun, like clockwork. He’s immediately, sharply aware of where he is: tucked against Atlas’ side, legs intertwined and one of Atlas’ arms thrown over his side.

He opens his eyes slowly.

Atlas’ face is thin, cheekbones clearly defined, hair artfully mussed, exposing one pointed ear. Tim studies him delicately; it’s dumb that he didn’t recognize Atlas for an elf immediately. He’s got the classic features and everything, all tall and thin and elegant.

Tim looks down at his lips. They’re thin as everything else, pale pink and slightly parted as Atlas sleeps. He studies those, too, gingerly. He’s not sure what it is, but something about the calm serenity of the moment feels breakable, as if by thinking or looking too hard he’ll shatter it.

Atlas’ eyelids flutter, and the moment breaks itself.

Tim’s scrambling away as fast as he can manage, darting over to his bed. He gets himself halfway on it, torso sprawled out but legs still on the floor.

Atlas sits up and Tim lifts his head as if just noticing, giving Atlas a small, probably-not-convincing smile.

“Morning,” Tim says. “Sleep well?”

“I think I had a really weird dream,” Atlas says instead of replying.

“Involving a burn-spell, two women, and a knife?” Tim suggests.

Atlas turns wide eyes on him. Tim tries very badly not to think about how well matched the two colors of his irises are.

“What happened?” he asks quietly.

Tim sits himself up, crossing the room to Atlas’ side. Atlas tips his head back to look up at Tim, expression searching. Tim’s definitely standing too close.

He reaches up and tucks a piece of brown hair back behind Atlas’ ear. He traces his finger over the length of it, its point distinctly not human.

Atlas shivers under his touch, and knocks Tim’s hand back. He shoves his way to his feet-- Tim is _definitely_ too close, his chest is only inches from Atlas as they’re standing.

“Going to use my blood and bones to make yourself rich?” he asks, voice tight and dangerous and wary, distrustful. There’s a challenge in it, but a genuine question too.

“They put you into a magical sleep,” Tim breathes, so close he’s sure Atlas can feel the words puff against his skin. “You would have been easy to kill.”

“So you’re taking pity on me?” Atlas says. There’s less fear in it but still a challenge.

Tim swallows. “I want to protect you,” he says lowly, and tries very badly not to hear the truth in it. “I can, if you let me.”

Atlas blinks, and shuffles back a half-step, putting distance to breathe between them.

“My name is Rhys,” he says. “My real name.”

Tim stares for a second. It’s not-- not particularly elven, actually. Less elven than he was expecting.

“Rhys,” he repeats, and is pleased with the way it sounds. It’s more real than Atlas-- it sounds like someone who won’t disappear.

Tim reaches up, and shifts Rhys’ hair until it falls back over his ear.

“Do that haircut when we’re out of town, yeah?” Tim says, and smiles.

Rhys’ grin is honest and relieved. “Yeah,” he agrees.

* * *

 

They stay out of towns for a long time, after that. Tim covers their tracks and their fires wherever they go. He hunts small game, shows Rhys the proper way to hold a bow, sharpens branches into spears and goes fishing in a river up to his thighs.

Rhys smiles often and Tim realizes how much he’s missed this. Company, friendship. Someone who’s there when the dawn sun comes up.

Rhys, in turn, teaches Tim things Tim’s never even _dreamed_ of. He teaches Tim an old elven tongue, something that weighs heavily in Tim’s mouth, even as he stumbles and falters over the syllables. He teaches him the same syllables in a script, draws runes in the dirt with a stick that Tim scratches out to look like an animal’s claws.

It’s late summer, almost early fall, when Tim decides to teach Rhys how to fish.

He knows this is a bear’s territory, can see the scratches and fur on the trees, the claw marks in the mud at the river’s bank, but he’s unconcerned. When the fish climb the rivers like this, there’s plenty to share.

He sharpens a second stick while Rhys sits with him, hands still.

“Here,” he says as warning, throwing it over to him.

Rhys catches it in his bandaged arm. It’s been months and Tim still hasn’t seen whatever it is he’s hiding. At most, he’s seen Rhys’ fingers and the tops of his knuckles; everything else is well-covered, hidden from sight.

“Come on,” Tim says, taking off his shoes and rolling his breeches up to mid-thigh. Rhys copies him, though he does roll his eyes.

“I don’t know why I need to learn,” he complains. “You’re better than I’ll ever be.”

“Just try,” Tim says. He tests his first few steps, wading out up to his shins on a small patch of rapids caused by uneven rocks, where the water’s rougher. He reaches out behind him, offering his hand for Rhys.

Rhys takes it in his left hand, cautiously following Tim out. He’s a little unsteady on his feet, unused to being pushed around by the strength of the river, but he gets the hang of it.

“When the fish run like this,” Tim says, letting go of Rhys’ hand to move further out, “there’s so many it’s practically easy. You just gotta be patient.”

Rhys nods in Tim’s peripheral, refocusing from keeping his balance to watching the water around his feet.

Tim watches Rhys, sees how his one blue eye seems to refocus itself. It often works independently of his other eye, not looking in the same direction or pupil dilated weirdly, too much or too little.

Like lightning, Rhys strikes forward. The blue eye catches strangely in the light, pupil too wide and iris thinned around it. He holds up his spear, a salmon struck through the side, flopping desperately on the end.

“This really isn’t difficult,” Rhys says, giving Tim a winning, this-definitely-isn’t-cheating, smile. His blue-eyed pupil shrinks rapidly, while the brown one doesn’t look away from Tim’s face.

Tim feels himself grinning. “Elves are bullshit,” he says. “This is unfair.”

Rhys pulls the fish from his spear and flings it off, over to the bank. “What, isn’t this _‘practically easy,’_ Tim?”

Still smiling, Tim turns his focus back towards the water. Rhys’ attention lingers on him for a moment, a heavy weight, then shifts back to the river around them.

Tim’s taken several tries, and finally feels his spear connect with something when Rhys lunges forward again.

He turns his head just in time to watch in slow-motion as Rhys’ bare feet slip on the rocks. The river grabs at his momentary loss of balance, pulling him backwards and under before Tim even has time to register what’s happening.

As soon as Tim’s brain catches up with his eyes, he drops his spear and goes diving after Rhys. He’d chosen a small patch of rapids just in case, but the water’s still rough for a while, and shallow in places. Rhys could easily knock his head and not come back up.

It’s chaos in the river, all frothing white water and rocks that scrape against Tim’s arms and bruise his shins. He blindly reaches out in front of him, shoving his head above water. He sees Rhys a little further down, spluttering. Does he know how to swim?

Tim strikes out towards him, reaching. He grasps at Rhys’ hands blindly, pulling Rhys towards him as he struggles to keep his own head above water.

Rhys’ bare hands clamp down on Tim’s arms, and Tim throws one arm around Rhys’ waist. He steers them diagonally, slowly pushing towards the bank.

They collapse as one exhausted entity on the pebbled bank. Rhys rolls away from Tim to violently hack up river water. Tim lies there, bone-deep tired, and hopes they didn’t get swept too far downriver.

“Sorry,” Rhys says, “are you okay?”

Tim turns his head on the pebbles to look at Rhys, where he half-lies on his stomach next to Tim. He huffs a laugh, though it takes most of the oxygen in his lungs. “You’re asking me if _I’m_ okay? _You’re_ the one that fell into the river.”

Rhys pouts. “I was going after a fish.”

It’s then that Tim notices Rhys’ exposed right arm. His elbow’s bent, keeping his chest off the rocks. The skin’s pale, hidden from the sun while the rest of him tanned in their travels. The bandage must have come off in the river.

Etched in intricate detail on Rhys’ right arm is a full sleeve tattoo. It’s made up of extensive elven runes Tim barely recognizes and rings and sigils that look more magical than anything Tim’s seen in his life.

Rhys follows Tim’s shocked gaze until he realizes what Tim’s looked at, and flinches back. He’s not wearing long sleeves but he tugs uselessly at the hem of his shirt anyway, trying to cover it.

“It’s nothing,” Rhys says defensively before Tim can even ask. “Elf stuff.”

“You’re hiding it,” Tim says. There are puzzle pieces that demand to fit together. Half the puzzle’s missing, two mismatched colors, but he can put it together if he really tries.

“Elf stuff,” Rhys insists. He doesn’t look at Tim, arms folded protectively like he can hide it.

“You don’t hide _elf stuff_ from me,” Tim says. It’s more accusing than he means it to be.

It’s something Rhys is ashamed of. If he’s not lying, it’s connected to elves. Rhys-- hasn’t talked much about them, really. Tim doesn’t know much more than he did months ago.

“Does it have to do with you leaving?” he asks.

Rhys stills. There’s a long, terrifying pause, and he nods.

“Can I see?” Tim asks softly.

Rhys twists until he’s upright. He mutely holds out his right arm in Tim’s direction, both eyes watching the river go by them.

Tims sits up too, gingerly supporting Rhys’ arm with one hand. With his other, he traces the rings and patterns, the elven runes. The translations he can do are rough at best and straight-up wrong at worst, but he thinks he grasps the meaning: _Get lost. Don’t come back._

“They did this to you?” Tim realizes it aloud, eyes coming up to search Rhys’ face.

At some point Rhys stopped watching the river and has started watching Tim. He nods, once.

“They cast you out,” Tim says. There’s a thin line of fury in his voice, molten wire drawn directly from the forge.

“They _banished_ me,” Rhys says. He brings his left hand up to trace some of the sigils on his upper arm. He tries to explain. “Elven settlements are concealed by magic only we can see through.”

“They took that from you,” Tim says. He meets Rhys’ gaze despite how hard Rhys is trying to avoid it. The pupil in his blue eye dilates-- fear?

“They did,” Rhys agrees. “That’s what all of _this_ is.” There’s venom in his voice, and without looking, his fingertips track an intricate set of chains from his shoulder to his wrist. Tim wonders how well he knows this tattoo.

“Why?” Tim asks.

Rhys frowns, and says bluntly, “I was hiding a half-elf. My best friend, Vaughn. When they discovered what he was, they banished us both.”

Now that Rhys is talking, Tim doesn’t stop asking. “What happened to him?”

Rhys shrugs. “We got separated. I hope he’s still alive.” Despite the casualness of his tone, there’s something wire-tight in his voice, an undercurrent of fear.

Tim falls silent, then. There’s no comfort he can offer, no reassurance that won’t be a lie.

He stands up abruptly. Rhys startles at the movement.

“Come on,” he says. “We’re soaked and we need to get back to our things.” He hopes the few fish Rhys had caught didn’t get eaten by the bear.

Rhys sits there for a moment longer, then takes Tim’s extended hand and lets himself be pulled to his feet.

“Thanks, Tim,” he says softly, genuinely. “For everything.”

“Well,” Tim says, trying not to let the emotions in his voice show, “you’d be dead by now if I didn’t stick with you.”

Rhys laughs, and leans into Tim’s side, a friendly comfort as they start heading back up the river. “Probably,” he agrees.

“Probably?” Tim raises an eyebrow, though his smile betrays him. “Definitely.”

“You saw me catch those fish!” Rhys protests. “I can feed myself!”

“Uh-huh,” Tim says, “and you can sleep through intruders in your room and walk around in elven clothes.”

“Fine, fine,” Rhys says, smile wide and easy. He leans even further into Tim. “You saved me.”

Tim warms at the affection heavy in his voice. Their jaunt in the river must have really pushed Rhys, if he’s exhausted enough to be like this.

“And don’t you forget it,” Tim says gently. He doesn’t know how else to give voice to the feeling in his chest.

* * *

 

It’s mid-fall when Tim realizes that he and Rhys can’t stay wanderers for the winter. If they try, they’ll get frozen when the snow starts. They either need to take up seasonal residence in a tavern in some small, unmapped village far from big settlements, or find an actual place to stay.

Rhys doesn’t know anything about the landscape. He couldn’t point out where he is or where he’s been on even the most detailed of maps. Tim tries very hard not to find this funny, or endearing. He fails miserably on both accounts.

“I know an old hunting lodge,” he says, “a ways north of here. We can probably reach it before the first snow starts.”

“Not the first frost?” Rhys is wrapped in far more furs than Tim is, an extra patchwork cloak of what Tim’s managed to hunt and skin.

Tim shakes his head. “That’ll be coming soon. The lodge is usually abandoned in the winter, though. It gets snowed in. Food might be a little scarce, but--”

He looks at Rhys-- Rhys, who is an elf. “You don’t need to eat as much as me, do you?”

Rhys wrinkles his nose, but he’s smiling. “I think you eat too much for a human anyway.”

Tim shoves him with a shoulder. “Not my fault you go slow.”

It’s the reason Rhys hadn’t been completely starving, back when they’d first met. Elves age slower, but apparently they just-- _go_ slower. Their bodies go through many of the same processes as humans, but they take longer. Apparently.

He and Rhys are still bickering gently as Tim covers over the remains of last night’s fire and they gather their few things. Tim has a compass-- an old, dented thing, battered and occasionally filled with rainwater, but it holds true north. Armed with only that, a rough map, and a general sense of their location, he steers Rhys back to a winding forest path and in what he hopes is the right direction.

It gets colder. The travel takes them weeks, and they’re travelling further north every day. They meet the first frost one chilly November morning, and Rhys shivers as he mutters an incantation in a language even older than elven, to spark the fire back to life.

“You know magic,” Tim says, surprised.

“Little bits,” Rhys says dismissively. “Just enough to get by.” He switches back to that ancient tongue, his tone almost coaxing now as the fire responds, climbing up to start on the log he’s just placed on the last few embers.

His voice sounds like ringing crystal, like the echo in a cave and a roll of thunder. There’s power inherent in it, and he speaks it to the fire and the fire listens.

“Your voice is beautiful,” Tim says. He immediately regrets it, as Rhys flushes a gorgeous red and refuses to look in his direction.

“Language of creation,” Rhys says, trying his very best to be dismissive and not proud or happy about the compliment. “Always sounds nice.”

Tim hums his assent, not wanting to go any further in whatever direction _that_ was. He goes digging through his bag, looking for something to call breakfast.

It starts snowing noontime that day. Tim and Rhys stop to take a break, during which Tim curses a lot and consults his map. He reckons they’re not far off, but the snow will slow their progress - if it doesn’t freeze them solid first - and the shorter days make it difficult to make as much headway.

“There should be a rocky outcrop not far from here,” Tim says. “If it can provide any shelter, we might as well spend the rest of the day waiting for the snow to stop.”

Rhys nods and huddles deeper into his furs. Tim has not a single doubt that at this point, he _needs_ Tim. Without his help, Rhys would die in days.

He tries not to enjoy being needed.

Tim carefully leads Rhys down the side of the rocky slope. The stone is slippery with the thin layer of snow over it, so they take their time. Rhys’ fingertips are turning blue by the time they’re at the bottom, and Tim curses himself for not buying gloves when he made his last run into town.

They walk along the base of it, looking for an outcrop. Blessedly, it doesn’t take long to find what Tim’s looking for. It’s half a cave, mostly open on one side, but has two and a half sides of wall and a roof to keep the snow out.

“Sit,” Tim says, “I’ll get some wood for a fire.” He helps Rhys down, trying to transfer any of the heat from his own body through Rhys’ furs.

Rhys nods and leans back, closing his eyes. Tim drops his bow and quiver into the corner, out of the way, and hurries off. He does his very best not to fret about Rhys while he’s out gathering wood-- Rhys is so pale, and he’s really not used to the cold at all, he’ll freeze if Tim can’t get some warmth back in his bones.

Rhys barely stirs as Tim starts the fire, struggling with the snow-damp wood. He uses a hatchet to split old, dead logs until he separates splinters from the middle, still dry.

As soon as the fire’s going even a little bit, Rhys scoots forward, practically sitting on the fire as he starts to mutter old, ancient words.

The fire responds in a way that makes Tim jealous, working its way quickly through the kindling and starting on one of the bigger logs. Rhys sags against Tim’s side, relieved.

Tim wraps one arm around Rhys’ shoulders, pulling him closer. He can feel the cold of Rhys’ skin against his own. He wraps his lukewarm fingers around Rhys’ frozen right hand and holds them both out over the fire, warming them.

They sit there for a long time, slowly warming themselves. The wind’s being kind, blowing snow away from them rather than into their little shelter.

At some point, Tim’s pretty sure Rhys falls asleep. He slumps further into Tim, mostly held upright by Tim’s arm around him.

Tim shifts his arm, curling it into Rhys’ hair. It’s getting shaggy again; he’s already had to cut it once more since that first time.

He presses a kiss into the tangle of Rhys’ hair. He tries very hard not to think too much of it, other than he wanted to. He also tries not to think about how Rhys relaxes instantly, slumping until his head is practically in Tim’s lap.

One hand stays resting on Rhys’ head, warm against his skin, and Tim leans back and gives in to sleep.

* * *

 

It’s a few more days until they make it to the lodge.

Like Tim expected, the snow’s a pain for travelling in. Luckily it was just a few inches, but they still have to stop more often for breaks, or to make fires.

It’s also incredibly difficult to cover tracks in winter.

Tim tries to stick to game trails, places where their footsteps might be mistaken for a hunter’s, or quickly hidden by animal tracks. There’s no hope for their fires, though. It’s easy to put them out, but impossible to cover them.

The lodge is locked when they arrive, but as Rhys suggests breaking down the doors or shattering a window, Tim produces a key from under layers and layers of clothing.

“Used to come here with old-- old friends,” he says.

They have to clear the snow drift from in front of the door, but luckily it hasn’t been the weather to freeze yet.

“How long has it been since you’ve been back?” Rhys asks, casting a critical look over the layer of dust.

“Couple years, probably,” Tim says. He shuts the door behind them and stomps the snow off his boots. He should’ve cleared the snow off the windows; there’s hardly any light coming through them.

The lodge is tiny; there’s the entryway, where Tim shucks his bow and quiver and his boots, the main room for eating and sitting and drinking, and a room that’s only beds.

Rhys follows Tim’s example, taking off his boots, but they both keep all their cloaks on. Tim crosses the room, to where dry firewood is piled up - probably starting to rot, it’s likely been there for a while - and starts moving logs to the fireplace. He’s got a pouch of kindling material with him, though it needs refilling soon.

“A hand?” he suggests, glancing back to where Rhys stands uncertainly in the middle of the room.

“Oh, sure,” Rhys says, not moving as he mutters a few words. The air sparks, and the kindling starts catching.

Tim still loves the sound of his voice.

“Thanks,” he says, instead of anything horribly embarrassing. He sits back on his heels and watches the fire as it starts to grow.

Rhys takes a seat on a stuffed armchair, and coughs as a cloud of dust rises around him. He glares at the chair, and Tim has to laugh.

“Don’t be an-- an asshole,” Rhys says between coughs, but Tim can hear the pout in his voice. “It’s _dusty._ You don’t-- don’t clean.”

Tim stops laughing to protest, “I haven’t been here in years!”

“Still your place,” Rhys says, abandoning the chair and its dust cloud to settle next to Tim on the floor. He hacks vainly a few more times, then glares at Tim through watering eyes.

“I’ll go get some snow,” Tim says, giving him a fond smile, and grabs the kettle from above the fireplace. “We’ll be here a while, we might as well settle in.” He can’t resist adding with a wide grin as he leaves: “Why don’t you go dust off some beds?”

“Hey!” Rhys yells after him, but Tim shoves his feet back into his boots and shuffles outside before Rhys can stop him.

He missed this. Having people, laughing. God, Tim missed having _friends._

Because that’s what Rhys is, now. A friend.

Yes, Tim decides firmly. Just a friend.

* * *

 

Tim and Rhys settle in, naturally as the snow settling around the little lodge. Tim’s already used to seeing Rhys sprawled out by the fire, bundled in as many layers as he can get. On the colder nights, they forgo sleeping in the quarters to drag blankets and pillows and sheets to the main hall, holing up together on the loveseat or huddling in front of the fireplace.

Tim hunts a couple times a week. Game’s scarce, but as long as he’s patient, he can usually get a rabbit or two. There are some stored foods in the lodge, but they’re tough with age even if still technically fine to eat.

There are a few blizzards, but nothing terrible. Tim has to climb out of the window a couple times to unblock the door, but the snow’s never _too_ deep. It’s a relatively peaceful winter-- Tim’s seen storms strong enough to take down full-grown, healthy trees, and this winter doesn’t bring any of them.

He traces Rhys’ tattoo with his fingertips and asks what the runes mean. Rhys teaches them to him, but he also teaches him things in elven that aren’t as cruel.

They’re halfway between cabin fever and happily ever after when Rhys kisses him.

The blizzard’s howling outside, but it sounds muted under the drum of Tim’s heartbeat in his ears. Rhys pulls himself back like he’s been shocked, eyes wide and slightly offended and Tim has never seen anything more perfect in his life.

Tim shifts forward out of his caterpillar-cocoon of blankets to chase him, leaning over into Rhys’ half of their nest to taste the surprise on his lips.

Rhys leans back, falls heavy into Tim like he needs the support. Tim’s hands find his shoulders, his sides, the back of his neck and the line of his jaw.

Rhys dislodges Tim from where he’s bruising the line of Rhys’ collarbone long enough to pant out, “I’d be dead without you.”

The mood shifts suddenly, from something fire-hot to warm sunlight on bared skin.

“I’d be lost without you,” Tim says softly. He knows that this is give-and-take, now, not the insist push of Rhys’ lips.

He knows that _this,_ this feeling in the air between them, is true.

“I need you,” Rhys says. He bows closer, again, forehead against Tim’s, lips a breath away.

“You _have_ me,” Tim says. He presses close, just a fraction of a half an inch, just enough so that Rhys meets him halfway and they’re tangled again, hands in hair and hands on hips and hips on hips.

Tim groans recklessly into Rhys’ mouth and Rhys gasps something in old, old tongues that Tim can’t even _begin_ to comprehend, and it lilts like a question; it’s something that he’s never heard before and knows exactly what it means.

 _“Yes,”_ Tim says, voice ragged and desperate. “Have me.”

* * *

 

Tim almost doesn’t want spring to come.

There’s something cozy in the respectful quiet of the snow outside, like it can sense something growing behind the lodge’s walls and is willing to sit, quiet and complacent, and wait for it to bloom.

It’s been so long since Tim’s kissed anyone, well and truly _kissed_ them, both like he needs air from Rhys’ lungs to breath and like it’s the simplest thing he’s ever done. It’s been so long since Tim’s _loved_ anyone.

Spring will bring back the hunters who actually own this lodge, who Tim is plenty eager not to meet again. Spring will mean he and Rhys will be back at a life travelling, away from the simple domesticity and where danger lurks everywhere.

Tim should really know better than to expect peace and quiet, even in a hunting lodge out in the middle of nowhere during winter.

They’re likely less than a month away from spring now, when someone knocks insistently at the door.

Rhys and Tim both freeze, instantly. Rhys looks at Tim and Tim looks at Rhys and tries not to notice how the pupil in his blue eye dilates sharply.

“Cover your ears,” Tim says, slow and very, very quiet. He untangles his legs from where they’re wound through Rhys’ on the loveseat and slides silently from under the blankets.

Rhys pulls at his hair, tugging it forward, and sliding down to lie flat on the loveseat. He tugs the blanket up around his head, leaving a portion of his face and neck open to the air.

Tim moves slow and purposefully across the room, into the entryway. He pulls a dagger from its sheath on the floor, next to his bow and quiver in the corner.

He opens the door, dagger held in front of his chest defensively. Ready.

Jack looks at him, at the dagger, and back at him. He grins wide. “No warm welcome for your brother?” He’s teasing, but there’s a thin line of warning in his voice. There’s always a thin line of warning in his voice. It’s Jack. He’s a walking threat.

Tim’s blood turns to ice. There is an _elf_ on the loveseat and his _bounty hunter brother_ just decided to crash their little wooden-walled paradise.

“Jack,” Tim says, trying for friendly and landing at deer-in-the-headlights. “I... haven’t seen you. In a while.”

Jack’s grin widens, if possible (does it even come off anymore? Is his face just _stuck_ like that?) and shoulders his way past Tim.

“No friends?” Tim asks. Hopefully. Jack is easier to deal with when he’s not performing for an audience.

“We had an argument,” Jack says cheerily.

“Right.” Tim swallows. He turns to close the door, and hears Jack start taking his boots off. He hastily adds, “Actually, I’m here with a-- a friend.”

He _really_ hopes Jack didn’t hear the weird half-pause. Jack fucking up his relationship - which, by the way, is with an _elf,_ whose blood and bones and eyes are worth more money than Tim’s seen in his life - is the last thing he wants right now.

“A friend?” Jack pauses, toeing out of his second boot. His face is blank for a moment, before he turns towards Tim with a grin that, on a scale from one to ten, would be earning Cheshire Cat purple stripes and wide glowing eyes. “Aww, Timothy,” he coos, his voice sharp as the edge of a knife, “you didn’t bring them over to meet the family?”

“He’s asleep,” Tim says, not meeting Jack’s eyes, which he knows is his own condemnation. “Leave him be for now.”

Jack, still in his snowy, fur-lined cloak, heads softly into the main room. Tim pulls the door closed and carefully _doesn’t_ lock it, in case a speedy exit is needed. He quickly makes his way back to the main room, a lot less quietly than Jack.

Jack glances at the figure on the loveseat, mostly hidden by blankets. He gives Tim another smile - Tim really hates how much he smiles, it never looks friendly - and goes to hang his cloak by the fire. Tim sneaks a peek at Rhys; he looks perfectly asleep, but it’s calming to remember he can track Jack by the sound of his footfalls, knows there’s a threat here and is following Tim’s orders to keep himself safe.

“How long have you two been-- travelling?” Jack asks, and Tim’s relieved by the awkward pause. If Jack feels out of his element, he won’t do anything drastic.

“Since spring,” Tim says. “Late spring, last year.” He avoids all the _big_ details, like the rope burn and elven clothes and Rhys’ blood reflecting in the firelight. “He stayed at my campfire one night, and we decided to stick together for a while.”

“He’s cute,” Jack says, turning around to warm his back against the fire. There’s something weirdly approving in his voice; it’s bordering brotherly affection, which is a thing Jack hasn’t gone near in _years._

Tim lets himself smile. And then he makes himself ask the big, bad question.

“How long were you planning to stay?”

Jack gives him a long look, then laughs. The laugh’s brittle, affection gone. “Don’t want me interrupting your winter getaway?” He glances at Rhys again and shrugs. “If the snow melts and I can make it to the next town over, I was planning to go get some new friends.”

“Bounty hunting treating you well?” Tim settles carefully in the armchair nearest Rhys. He can see the slight shift as Rhys’ body tenses, his eyelids fluttering briefly as panic spikes.

Jack gives him a sideways smile. “Pays better than your wandering hunter act. Ever think about taking it back up?”

Tim gives a shrug, faking nonchalance. “Wasn’t really my style. Less morally gray to hunt deer than people.” He really hopes Rhys won’t think differently of him for this. His time bounty hunting with Jack was not-- not exactly when he was at his best, and he hasn’t brought it up.

“Morals are a pain in the ass, Tim,” Jack says. “Easier to kill first and ask questions later.”

Apparently sufficiently warmed, he crosses the room and heads into the quarters. “If I take one of your beds, too bad,” he calls cheerfully.

Rhys shifts slightly, eyes opening to look at Tim. There’s absolute blind terror in his eyes, both of them, like there hasn’t been since he first stumbled onto Tim’s campfire, wounded and on edge.

“That’s your _brother?”_ he hisses. His voice is just loud enough to make out, shaky and petrified.

Tim nods, glancing carefully over to the doorway. Should he close the door? No, too suspicious. Jack would know something’s up.

God, he’s paranoid. There’s no way he and Rhys can get through even a few days of this.

Especially not as Rhys says, “He’s the one I escaped from.”

Oh _shit._ Jack can be thick at times, but he’s not an idiot. To any extent. Tim’s surprised he hasn’t recognized Rhys already.

Tim remembers the way he’d found Rhys, shaking and afraid and beat to hell and back, bruised and cut and feet bleeding from thorns and rope burn around his wrists, and he grits his teeth.

“Come on,” he says. “We’re leaving.”

Jack will never forgive him. Tim doesn’t particularly care, not when it’s Rhys’ life or Jack’s pride.

There’s snow outside and it’s freezing and they don’t have any of the right equipment for winter travel, but they have a better chance against nature than against Jack.

He urges Rhys up, quickly and quietly, ushering him into the entryway as softly as possible. Rhys’ blue eye is wild, gleaming as it darts across the room like a frantic animal, but his brown eye stays steady and focused and determined.

With a quiet glance, not seeing Jack in the quarters and hoping he’s gone to go to sleep, Tim takes his heavy winter cloak from the fireplace. He ties Jack’s boots to the back of his bag-- anything that will slow him down, prevent him coming after them.

They’re both halfway dressed when Jack appears in the doorway.

“Leaving so soon?” he asks, voice chipper and on the edge of violence.

It takes him all of the two seconds Rhys and Tim are frozen, unmoving, arms halfway in sleeves and one boot half-laced, to take in the tattoos on Rhys’ right arm and his ears and his face.

His eyes shoot to Tim, narrow and hostile and the expression he’s wearing matches far too closely the way he looked last time Tim saw him kill a man for nothing but insubordination. His hand is a metal vice on Rhys’ arm before Tim can move, yanking it accusingly to bare before Tim. Tim knows that tattoo well, has traced it with his fingertips and his lips and his eyes, could repeat in perfect pronunciation the elven runes across it.

“A plain old runaway wasn’t good enough?” Jack _snarls,_ teeth bared and face twisted in raw fury. “You wanted an _elf_ runaway?”

He’s not even looking at Rhys properly, furious and hatred aimed at Tim. Tim’s grateful for that, at least-- Rhys is worth just as much dead as he is alive.

Tim’s got a dagger in his hand before he knows what he’s doing, half an inch away from the underside of Jack’s arm.

“Let him go,” he says, voice thin. Jack’s not the only one who can threaten.

It takes a second, for the presence of the knife to even penetrate the haze of Jack’s anger. His eyes narrow, gauge. Tim shifts his grip, balances himself, prepares to fight.

Jack lets go.

“You’re too weak to bounty hunt,” he says, “isn’t that why you gave it up? Thought people like him deserved a _chance.”_ He spits the words in Rhys’ direction.

“Not everyone is weaker than you, Jack,” Tim says. There’s a warning in his voice.

Rhys finishes pulling on his jacket, grabs his fur cloak and throws it on over Jack’s travelling cloak. He laces his last boot, swings his pack up onto his shoulders. He looks to Tim.

Jack doesn’t move, eyes flicking from Rhys to the knife to Tim back to the knife. He’s gauging. Waiting.

Tim knows his stance all too well. It’s like a cat wriggling on its haunches; it may look cute, but its attention is hyper-focused and if its prey twitches in the wrong direction, it’ll pounce.

“If you follow us,” Tim says carefully, “you will regret it.”

Jack doesn’t look like he believes him.

Rhys says something in old elven. His hand presses, assuring, against Tim’s shoulder.

_Come away with me._

Jack’s eyes flicker to Rhys. His lips curl back, his stance shifts, his weight leans forward--

Tim’s dagger flashes out, cutting a line down Jack’s forearm. Jack flinches backward, but now there’s spilled blood and open rage in his eyes.

Tim backs out, Rhys behind him. Rhys’ boots are crunching last night’s new snowfall underneath him when Jack lunges again.

Tim’s unprepared, this time, too busy making sure he doesn’t walk into the doorframe to react quickly enough. Jack knocks him over, tackles him into the snow, wrests the dagger from his hand and bares it down, gleaming, over his throat.

Rhys is there, beautiful Rhys with ancient words and just enough magic. The dagger turns to snow as Jack crushes it against his throat, harmless cold.

Except now it’s just the pressure of Jack’s hand, and Jack only grows angrier at being thwarted. He bares his full weight down, fingers curled around Tim’s throat. Tim struggles under him, shoves, but bounty hunting builds more muscle than animal hunting and Jack’s always been the stronger one--

But Rhys, beautiful Rhys with elven grace and dignity, kicks Jack in the face.

Tim’s choking for air as Rhys pulls him up, away, and they’re running. Jack screams something incoherent in his rage, or else muted under the pounding in Tim’s ears, and Rhys is holding his hand and muttering things in his magic tongue again, things Tim can’t understand but hears like echoing, ringing crystal.

Suddenly there’s less snow, and sunshine instead of clouds overhead, and they’re surrounded by pine trees. Rhys has moved them-- somehow, somewhere, Tim doesn’t know, doesn’t care.

He grabs Rhys by the face and kisses him, hard, frightened and grateful and so full of panic he needs _somewhere_ for it to go.

Rhys seems to understand. He kisses back, first just as hard, fiercely, and then he slows them down, runs his hands over Tim’s shoulders and arms and calms him, bit by bit.

“I’m sorry,” Tim says.

 _“I’m_ sorry,” Rhys tells him. “I have no idea where we are.”

Tim laughs. He can’t help himself-- they’re outside in the last dregs of winter, Tim’s half-dressed and has his brother’s boots hanging from his pack and they’re absolutely _lost._

Rhys laughs, too, and kisses the sound away against Tim’s lips.

“Come on,” he says. “I think I owe you a fire, now.”

* * *

 

Luckily, they stumble across a town a few days later. Tim doesn’t have his bow and quiver, so they’re hungry, but he has coin for a new one and for food. They stay there for a while, and Tim finds their location on a map again, and they’re far enough for Jack to not be able to make it from the lodge anytime soon.

They leave when spring finally arrives, bringing with it welcome relief.

Tim and Rhys fall back into their usual pattern, but they stay careful. Tim finds the least smoky wood for their fires, and covers their campground whenever they leave.

Halfway through the next fall, they board a ship. Rhys speaks with the stormmage and learns to read the clouds for danger. Tim learns to adjust rigging, find true north with the stars, and how to cook-- if his ingredients include fish, saltwater, and month-old hardtack.

They trade work aboard the ship for travel to the neighboring continent. They stay briefly in the port city, but the hustle and bustle is inconvenient for hiding Rhys, so they take their coin and head out to some remote, unnamed, unmapped village.

For some coin, the locals help them build a little cottage. They pack clay into the walls and teach them how to thatch a roof. Tim takes up hunting again, and Rhys grows a garden.

It’s-- safe. Cozy, warm, comfortable. Rhys curls into Tim’s side the same as he did when he was on the run, battered and bruised and afraid. Tim sleeps lightly, but at worst, he wakes up to Rhys falling out of the bed they’d made.

Tim finds himself happy. He-- hadn’t expected that, really.

He likes to spend time in the garden, watching Rhys. It’s peaceful. Tim can almost believe that they’ll be safe forever, content forever. To grow old and old and old, to love each other.

Tim finds paradise. It fills a part of him, stops him wandering.

So _this_ is what he’s always been looking for.


End file.
